


Talk To Me

by oceansinmychest



Category: Wentworth (TV)
Genre: Art, F/F, One Shot, not enough art fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-05
Updated: 2017-10-05
Packaged: 2019-01-09 06:46:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 976
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12271074
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oceansinmychest/pseuds/oceansinmychest
Summary: Vera attends an open reception of an art gallery and runs into her boss by chance.





	Talk To Me

**Author's Note:**

> I wanted to write something a bit... self-indulgent as a present to myself since tomorrow is a special for me. A few people asked for another "artsy" fic. The title is influenced by Porcelain Raft. Enjoy. xx

> “Little noises coming from the corridor. Somehow, the voice doesn't come out. It doesn't have to: the ear is close to the mouth.”
> 
> _Talk To Me_ – Porcelain Raft

She doesn't know why she's here.

In a contemporary art gallery, Vera Bennett finds herself out of bounds. Hardly an expert in the humanities, she has her heart (her faith) placed in humanity and little else. Stepping inside the establishment, a glass comes her way along with a brochure. Graciously, a meek and modest mouse accepts both offerings.

Tonight, she sports a wine-colored turtleneck. It constricts, restricts. As a consequence, Vera shrinks further into herself. A silver heart-shaped pendant beats, beats, beats against her chest. Her sweater drapes itself over her arm, as lifeless as a rag. She's too timid to pass it along to coat check. Besides, the frigid chill that sweeps through the gallery is enough to keep her hair standing on edge.

A crowd forms around the curator of the exhibit. This is a gallery where debutantes cling to their fading, former glory. Their bottle blonde hair gives way to the roots of their past: brown, black, grey – an homage to the Marilyn Monroe aesthetic that Hollywood Americans aspire for.

Vera finds it strange. She realizes that she doesn't belong and she never will.

A thin, reed of a man stands center stage. He talks about themes she doesn't understand. Modern art carries a different aesthetic, he stresses. His glasses carry the gleam from the artificial, fluorescent light that swings up above. The absurdity of avant-garde art is lost upon the crowd. He pushes up his coke-bottle lenses and discusses words like post-modernism, Dadaism, surrealism, the impressionalist movement. Vera still doesn't understand. Bewildered, she looks to the faceless sea. Riveted, they lean into him. Consume him with their prying vulture eyes. They think that this is reality.

Uncomfortable, Vera has had enough. She breaks free from an audience that claims to know when they don't know jack shit. The petite woman worms her way out of the mess of people. She ventures towards an isolated wing of the gallery.

White walls are a testament to the modern curatorial trend. They make the art stand out rather than giving way to a chaotic composition of pieces places too closely together. Grey-blue eyes wander to the title of the piece.

Duchamp's _The Passage from Virgin to Bride_ stares back. She tilts her head. Her hair flows wild and free. Tickles her cheek, her jaw, her shoulder. The painting is twisted. It jars her. Shakes her to the core. She feels guilty for just not “getting it.” Maybe it makes her green behind the ears, maybe it makes her stupid.

Worry makes her bite down on her lip. She frets too much. Worries about the opinions of others more than she cares to admit.

The neutral, beige tones promise a sort of eroticism, as though she's staring at flesh – perhaps her own, in the mirror, bare and exposed under the dim lights of her childhood room. She looks away.

There's a shadow in here.

Joan Ferguson stands out. Her heels click-clack, rat-a-tat; it's louder than gunfire. Even in an intimate setting, she commands a presence. The suit, while not the Governor's uniform, fits her body like a suit of armor. She's Joan of Arc incarnate; she's going to burn for the fire she'll cause. Give it time.

"Vera,” she says her name like an old song. Joan raises her brows, the only indication of shock. “What a pleasant surprise."

“I wanted to try something new,” she confesses and plays the role of flushing, mechanical bride.

Translation: _Help me understand. I want to, but I can't._

Miss Ferguson smiles and it's a knife to the heart. Vera wants to see more of it.

Flutes of champagne lighten the conversation. They sip from their glasses on occasion. Joan speaks about Duchamp as though the artist – the art – is her native tongue. It's a beautiful language that Vera can't understand, but appreciates.

She talks about the eroticism of the work that unveils a primal nature: a grotesque animal that shifts the conception of daily life. Dutifully, devotedly, Vera listens. It's a trance, a spell, a charm that could send her plummeting to her death. Even then, she wouldn't mind.

Never mind.

Somehow, in the heat of the discussion, Joan draws closer, closer, _closer_. A breach of distance promises a suffocating atmosphere. This is what it means to choke. To burn alive.

Joan's teeth graze her lip. The gesture is surprisingly human.

It's slow, it's sensual, it's a deliberate fold in her mechanical ruse. Her mouth parts, the nude gloss bestowing them with a gleam. Enraptured, Vera stares – it's a poor habit she's developed for a silly crush (and that's how it feels) she's developed.

Here the Governor stands, giving away nothing when Vera gives away everything.

Without hesitation (or perhaps it's the biting of her lip: that tiny, human act), Joan kisses her in this isolated corner of the wing. The palm of her hand ghosts over the slope of her jaw. It's a pledge to fealty, sweat and short.

Hopelessly devoted, Vera reaches up to hold onto her lapels.

Lips are met with a gusto. The pieces of the puzzle fall into place. Then, it ends.

Joan recoils. Puts her stony facade back in place. She swallows a lump in her throat. Stands tall. Holds her head high.

“Shall we carry this conversation elsewhere?”

Dazed, Vera tilts hers.

“Uhm, _please_.”

Did she sound desperate?

You would too.

“My place,” Joan continues. “Drinks. Nine o’clock sharp. Don’t keep me waiting, Vera.”

Just like that, she's gone. Akin to a wisp of smoke, she's off with her agenda in mind – whatever ulterior motive that may be. Joan discards her empty plastic glass. Her heels echo throughout the lonely hall.

A lamb follows.

 


End file.
